


Coucher Avec Moi

by halotolerant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, OT3, sex for science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-26
Updated: 2010-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a plan</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coucher Avec Moi

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you elfwhistletree, beta and sounding-board <3

Energised by conviction, Sherlock rose from his chair, crossed the room, opened the door, ran lightly down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, arm raised to hail a cab.

"Bye then!" he heard John call after him down the stairwell, and Sherlock noted with approval that the absence of inquiries as to destination/duration.

Not, of course, that he would have demurred to explain his plan in all its elegant conception, but that wasted precious time. He had lingered long enough thinking it over as it was. Although the solution had arrived in his mind easily enough, he'd spent a while pondering how best to approach it. How best to persuade another person of the validity of his conclusions.

Often, Lestrade would simply do as Sherlock told him, but not absolutely always. Possibly not on this occasion.

He would yield to logic, and persistence, of this Sherlock had every faith.

The energy of determination carried him easily through the relative tedium of the journey to Lestrade's house in Islington, and he began to feel a faint buzz of anticipation and curiosity.

But Lestrade was not at home; the burglar alarm was set and blinking. Not just a meander to the corner shop either, his car was nowhere to be seen. The staffing information Sherlock had downloaded from the police station computer had quite clearly identified the day as one when Lestrade was scheduled to have annual leave; he frowned, deeply irritated. Having occupied such a clear place within Sherlock's plan, it seemed only right that Lestrade should be in a convenient location as well.

Taking out his phone and scrolling up the number, Sherlock then hesitated - finger poised - before dialling. Whilst he was utterly convinced that Lestrade could have no genuinely reasonable objection to his designs, he could still predict an initial dismissal. It was almost always easier to persuade people in person, and Lestrade in particular was more susceptible when in his physical presence.

He exited his address book, therefore, and switched on the application that would let him track the small GPS dot he'd placed on Lestrade's phone about a year earlier. A marker appeared on a map of southeast England, zooming in quickly - and to Sherlock's irritation - to an address in Tonbridge – an hour on the train, or a very expensive taxi; Lestrade could really be unspeakably annoying.

Consideration of the choice pointed out to him that it was a hot day – he had not initially realised this, and was wearing an overcoat – and that at present it was the beginning of the afternoon rush hour and the trains would be packed to the point of deepest intimacy.

Black cabs were hard to find in the more residential sections of North London; he lifted his phone again and dialled a radio taxi from Camden Town, mentally noting to take some cash the next time he picked Lestrade's pocket.

Having fun? Shopping, do you like sausages? A text from John flashed up as he waited.

Not human or llama, Sherlock pinged back.

\- -

As his taxi turned into the road, Sherlock could see that a small crowd was gathered around one of the imposing Georgian mansions, pressing up to a flimsy barrier of police tape. They were for the most part dressed for a day's casual leisure in tank tops and shorts, only one smarter man in a leather jacket likely representing the first presence of the Press. Two police vans and a bike lined the road, with a silent ambulance in which a lone paramedic was sitting eating a chocolate bar.

Shoving a handful of notes at the driver, Sherlock moved quickly towards the scene. A hypothesis had occurred in the back of his mind that was unaccountably troubling given its statistical unlikelihood.

Numerous undesirable possibilities were ruled out when Lestrade emerged at that moment from the front door, rubbing his hands together as he tended to when having just removed latex gloves and then running the back of a wrist across his forehead, shifting a layer of sweat that darkened his hair. That he had not intended to work that day was clear; Sherlock had rarely seen him in jeans and a t-shirt - it was faintly disconcerting. He looked, if anything, older than usual, a frown cutting across his face and when, turning, he first saw Sherlock at the back of the small crowd, it was possible to note that before the frown deepened with confusion, there was a second for which it lifted, relieved.

Lestrade lifted the police tape and beckoned, wordlessly leading the way through a side gate to the back of the house, away from the onlookers.

"What's this about? Nothing for you here," he said without preamble, when they were standing together at the top of a long garden lawn, next to a sandpit and an inflatable paddling pool full of clear, fresh water. His eyes were dark-rimmed, a few capillaries burst – a late night, likely looking at a screen, probably expecting a lie-in, and what had it been – computer games? DVDs? Pornography? Phoning his ex-wife?

"Sherlock? Are you listening? I said there's nothing for you here. He's confessed - he's the one that rang the police for goodness sakes." Lestrade looked back at the house, his fists at his side clenching and unclenching. "He's in there now, crying."

"I was looking for you," Sherlock corrected, and then, looking past him to the house – illogical to waste an opportunity, and the place was almost certainly expensively furnished - "But depending on the crime I suppose there might be some interesting stain dispersion rates to document – it simply isn't financially possible to test blood on all the better grades of leather."

Lestrade's eyes flashed. "I wouldn't. It stinks, for one thing. All this sun, lots of blood."

"You know that's nothing to me."

Lestrade said nothing, turning away, shoulders hunched as if against a cold wind, evidently not about to resist the request further. Yet Sherlock stayed still; his interest in blood, spreading through chocolate coloured leather or otherwise, was minimal today in comparison to his current plans, although these were being rapidly complicated – the opening gambits he had planned for this situation had not involved this kind of context.

"I need you," he said at last.

Lestrade sighed. "I'm going to stay out here a bit and have a cigarette, try and get the stink out of my nose. I'll join you in there."

"Not for the crime scene. I need you to come and have sex with me."

Lestrade laughed – later Sherlock would remember that detail very clearly. A short, bitter, blast of laughter, almost a shout, rolling his eyes; it was not one of the responses Sherlock had calculated for.

"Seriously?" Lestrade's eyes and mouth opening so wide, with a smile that was not really a smile. "Oh that's great, that's the tin lid on it. This is the most fucking ridiculous day of my life and I knew you'd be there when that happened, I knew it. OK, go on, explain." He folded his arms.

Sherlock sniffed, answering with some dignity. "It's a lengthy process of logic, but suffice it to say that it's vital to my current case that I remind myself of the overwhelming nature – or otherwise – of the endorphin state involved."

"Fuck, you are serious." Lestrade's expression had changed again, he looked back at the house and then behind himself warily, before lowering his voice to continue, "And insane. Listen, OK, there's four people dead in there, a mother and her kids, there's so much blood it's on the fucking light fixtures, right? And the dad, the husband, he's sitting there crying, and the tears are running streaks through all the blood spatter on his face – crying, he's crying like he wasn't the one that..."

He stopped, biting his lip, closing his eyes for a moment. Sherlock had never heard him swear so much.

"And this bloke, yeah? I'm involved with a team investigating him for major business fraud and embezzlement over where he works in my part of town. We impounded his computer yesterday. And, apparently, this was how he reacted to being, quote, 'stressed out'. But he's confessed to this and to the fraud, and so it's all quite neat and tidy, nothing for you to do."

Lestrade sat down on the edge of the sandpit, bracing his hands on the wood and staring intently at the ground, and there was a pause. Sherlock swallowed, unsure how to respond to the hopelessness in the other man's voice.

"Then there is nothing here for you to do either," he tried, not sure he'd pitched the tone correctly for what he wished to convey, and when Lestrade looked back up at him, anger in his eyes before the mask of world-weary composure reasserted itself, he realised Lestrade had not fully understood him.

"Look, you selfish bastard, I've got to help sort this out and then the absolutely last thing I'm going to be in the mood for is what you're suggesting. So go home. And hopefully by tomorrow you'll have moved on to some other desperate obsession or talked to John – have you talked to John about this?"

"He is not the best option - I have to live with him," Sherlock pointed out. "I told you, I arrived at you from a logical process. And it is of relevance to solving a crime, which is more than can be achieved here."

Shaking his head, Lestrade pulled a blue plastic lighter out of his pocket and flicked up a flame, staring into it. "Sherlock, I never thought I'd say this but I don't think you have the faintest idea what you're suggesting."

"You haven't said that you don't want to do it."

"Maybe I'm sparing your feelings."

Exasperation broke. "Feelings have nothing to do with it! I just want to understand the apparently unique sensation of being brought to orgasm by another person so that I can determine the mental processes possible to undertake in that state - adjusting of course, for my own superior cognitive abilities - and thus test an alibi! How is it any different to taking drugs?"

He knew it was a provocative statement, half hoped it would drive some energy into the other man in response, but Lestrade just kept looking at the flame, not outraged, not quick to correct, with only a slight sigh like disappointment, although that made no sense at all.

"If you won't do it, the next most reasonable option is probably a prostitute," Sherlock let a slight emphasis ring on reasonable. "I don't see why the effort of, as they say, 'pulling' is merited when one can cut to the chase."

Lestrade groaned softly and put his head in his hands and Sherlock allowed himself a slight smirk, knowing what would come next.

"Fine. Whatever."

"You're saying yes?"

"I'm giving in. Like I always do. But not today, not tonight; think about it for godssake, don't do anything stupid and text me tomorrow."

"Define 'stupid'."

Standing, Lestrade leant in towards him, his voice low and gruff. "Don't let some random idiot start touching you." And then, drawing back before Sherlock had fully had a chance to analyse the meaning and effect of his words, speaking quite as usual whilst unbending a crumpled cigarette packet: "Though whether I'm trying to protect you or the idiot I'm damned if I know."

"You know that I will not change my mind."

"That's what I said the last time I gave these things up," Lestrade blew a long trail of smoke into the air. "But apparently I just don't know what's good for me. Now, please, go away."

\- - -

"There's a portion of stew in the fridge next to the river water samples if you want it."

"Not hungry." Opening a new tab, Sherlock Googled 'gay sex'. It was as well to be prepared.

"Do you have to do that at the kitchen table?"

Sherlock looked up. John's pained expression was visible over the top of the Review section of the Guardian. "Do you object?"

"To pornography, yes."

"Interesting. But not to gay sex?"

"Um, no? Not in general. You're not... Is this leading somewhere?"

Sherlock pointed at the screen. "It's amazing how little people can conceal even when they're 'acting' although I suppose this form of media scarcely counts. For example one can instantly tell that this man holding the dildo recently discovered he was adopted. Actually, this is rather fun, one doesn't usually get to see people naked."

"No, that is correct." John stood up. A flush was rising up his neck, at odds with the studied calm of his voice. "Could you at least stop using my laptop?"

"Why? You can reassure Sarah it's your flatmate's search history." He raised an eyebrow.

John held out his hand and, with an exaggerated shrug and a sigh, Sherlock handed the machine over.

"So, what's all this about?" John asked, closing the window only to reveal behind it Sherlock's previous search results with 'blowjobs'.

\- - -

Feeling somewhat less prepared than he had expected to given his level of research, by the same time the next evening Sherlock was following Lestrade through into his living room. He examined the surroundings with interest; stylish green sofas, cheap television, expensive sound system, unused fireplace, gaps amongst the pictures on the walls, battered upright piano with evidence of frequent use. On a desk in the corner were several manila files seemingly concerning the corruption/murder case, with loose papers strewn about and a pad covered in scribbling.

Lestrade carefully placed two large glasses of red wine on a low table and, having taken a long swig, sprawled back across one of the sofas. His eyes were still red and darker rimmed now than before. "OK, if you're so determined to do this, what exactly is it that you want to do?"

Perching on the sofa arm above him, Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "Oh, whatever is usual, whatever you prefer. I am more interested in the end than the means."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I'll say. You really don't have a clue what you're asking for, do you?"

"I know precisely what..."

"No, you know what you want." Lestrade sat up, swallowing more wine, frowning. "But it isn't that simple."

"Why not? Why must you people insist on placing all these complicated conditions on a perfectly straightforward physical action that requires no engagement of anything other than the genitals? Why do you choose to feel everything?"

Lestrade looked up at him, anger and something else in his eyes, and Sherlock experienced an interesting sensation running down his spine.

Opening his mouth, Lestrade seemed about to speak. There was a pause, however, and when he did Sherlock was sure it was not what he had been originally going to say.

"Take your clothes off."

Sherlock looked at him curiously, but the change of mind seemed too beneficial to analyse. "All of them? Is that really necessary?"

"No, just your socks – yes, of course all of them or you'll only end up staining something and I bet John does your laundry."

"A correct hypothesis, but I fail to see the relevance. If it is in reference to privacy, I told him of our plans for tonight."

Lestrade looked at him a long moment. "You bastard," he said at last under his breath, shaking his head, and before Sherlock could demand an explanation grabbed him, pulling him so completely off-balance that for a moment he almost tried to fight back, sideways and down to the sofa cushions. Then he was being kissed on the mouth, none-too-gently, and felt a hand palming at his groin, tracing the contours of his body through his trousers.

The experiment had begun; Sherlock set himself to observe and remember as much as possible as the current likelihood of a repeat seemed low.

To begin with, the presence of Lestrade's hand between his legs was unsettling, and Sherlock found he was fighting a defensive instinct to push it away, whilst also registering the complex sensation and taste of his mouth, which was strangely the more intimate of the two feelings.

"Shut up." Lestrade's hand was pulling at the waist of his trousers now, his fingers brushing Sherlock's stomach randomly, the sensory effect greater than seemed logical, what had seemed intrusive now seeming insufficient.

"I didn't say anything."

Lestrade drew back a little and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "You're thinking."

"Would you expect anything less?" Sherlock countered.

Lestrade leaned forward again; he was straddling Sherlock as they lay across the sofa and this brought them more or less into alignment, which Sherlock found sent a ripple of feeling through him leaving his cock almost fully hard. Then Lestrade's mouth was back on his, then at his neck; he'd never thought to notice Lestrade's mouth before and that had clearly been an oversight. Lestrade, murmuring; "When you smile, you look like you could be so normal."

"Why do people persist in believing that is... a good thing?" The words came out, but as he spoke he realised his breathing had speeded up and grown shallow, that the heavy feeling spreading from his groin to his chest was demanding all his attention. With the trousers on the floor, Lestrade's cock was sliding against his own, fiercely warm and astonishingly new.

"Did I say that?" Lestrade's voice was rough, which was somehow in itself of interest to all the primitive parts of Sherlock's mind, the ones that were telling him in increasing volume to bite and lick and hold and press and rub, faster. Basic programming, standard issue; it was almost like having another personality creeping up on him unawares and asserting itself within his brain. "You need to pay closer attention."

"This is... distracting. Which is very..."

"Don't let me interrupt you."

"It is fine, continue. Very relevant data. Continue!"

Lestrade's face broke into a warm grin above him, the kiss that followed – Lestrade would persist in not returning to his previous activity, quite indescribably annoying – was not as frantic as before, nor so full of friction. It made the heavy feeling in Sherlock's stomach intensify.

Simple reflexes are neuron loops that produce rapid responses to certain stimuli, cutting out the conscious brain to be as instantaneous as possible. Sherlock decided that the impulse to groan and gasp was such a process, for it was a ridiculous noise and yet when Lestrade bit his neck – a feeling that began as pain and ended differently – and then sucked at the sore skin, he had already begun before he realised he was doing it. Lestrade's hand went to his chest, pinching at his nipple and Sherlock felt his whole body arch into it, into Lestrade, without a moment's conscious thought. Lestrade made a noise that vibrated through Sherlock's chest and Sherlock found himself flipping them over, getting on top and pressing down, finding it easier to control, and moving, thrusting his hips and putting his mouth to Lestrade's neck and his shoulders and his lips and his fingers, feasting on every moan, every time his eyes closed or his body bucked; the rush, the power was extraordinary.

And then he was moving, he had let his guard down, stopped taking note of everything and Lestrade was wrestling them over again, pausing to open a condom packet, and Sherlock had barely begun to register his impatience before Lestrade's mouth had moved further down his body and was on him again, over and over, and he heard the words turn meaningless. Lestrade's lips were sliding down his cock, and there, groaning again.

He was holding his breath, he realised, after a period, not moving even his lungs because all his attention was absolutely focused, and the feeling, the spinning, the floating, the rippling of sensation like water, must be the concentration of carbon dioxide in his blood increasing; the yearning was for oxygen. Lestrade's mouth was really quite preposterously wet and his tongue, and his tongue...

Lestrade's eyes. Lestrade watching him across a plane of his skin. Lestrade not blushing or gasping, just moving, too slowly, watching him relentlessly, seeing him, observing and Sherlock wasn't going to, wasn't... Sherlock couldn't... not yet... not yet...

\- - -

"So, what did John say?" Lestrade passed him a cup of tea and Sherlock took it carefully, extending a hand from under the throw he'd wrapped himself in. He had felt much more aware of his nakedness, once they'd finished.

Sherlock sniffed the tea – Twining's Afternoon, not his preferred blend but acceptable – and tried to recall what, in fact, his flatmate had answered to The websites are because I've worked out how to test Mr Haggarty's alibi, I'm going to have sexual relations with Lestrade. You keep searching for that bicycle while I'm gone. At the time, his mind had been rather preoccupied.

"I think he thought I was joking. Which you did as well, so you can't blame him. What does it matter to you anyway?"

"OK, fine, let's talk about the fact that you just came in my mouth, that will be far less awkward."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "It was the plan."

"And do you have your answer now? Have you gained a deep understanding of the mental context of orgasm with another person?" Lestrade had thrown on a thin dressing gown, but it was open down the front, and Sherlock could see the bite marks on his chest.

"Yes. Inevitably." Sherlock licked his lips, they tasted of tea and of Lestrade's mouth – how strange, how somewhat horrible to know what another person's mouth was like. Prior to this occasion, he had read several texts, medical and pornographic, and experimented as best he could with his hands and a selection of inanimate objects, and in truth he had suspected that there might be nothing another person could really add to the experience.

This hypothesis had been proven to be fallacious.

"And I am getting the impression," Sherlock continued, putting his mug down on a table, "that you are not happy with me." His voice trailed away. Lestrade had risen and was walking across the room towards him, and one of the newly learned reflexes had made all the hairs on Sherlock's neck rise up, and other parts of his body stir as well.

Lestrade opened a drawer in the table, removed a coaster and placed it under Sherlock's mug before turning away, and Sherlock was aware of a momentary relief of tension – a feeling of disappointment? – primarily because the next moment Lestrade was sitting down next to him and the shiver blew over him again.

"Is that so?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, sitting up straighter, trying to ignore the slow burn in the pit of his stomach. "Sexual intercourse is frequently considered a form of exceptional intimacy and intimacy implies vulnerability, which I suppose you may be feeling. This however is culturally constructed and not unavoidable."

"Oh, right," Lestrade's eyes widened, voice falsely cheery with sarcasm. "You are hoping that I'm not feeling vulnerable, that's very good of you." Leaning back, he ran a hand over his face, the robe falling still further open, and Sherlock found himself thinking of how it would look if that hand kept descending and Lestrade were to touch himself, which indeed as an average male he must do quite regularly.

He had been going to continue speaking, he remembered after a moment. "Physical reaction is entirely predictable. No one individual is any different in that regard."

"Yeah, I think that's enough." Lestrade stretched to pick up a cordless phone from its cradle on the table. "I'm going to phone you a taxi, get dressed."

"I was not trying to imply that you were inadequate. It was very... stimulating."

"Fuck you." For no reason Sherlock could identify, Lestrade almost leapt onto him, mouth going to the bruise on his neck, the one just above the collarbone already sucked to deep erythema until every nerve ending jangled, bearing him back on the sofa, their respective coverings falling away and bringing skin violently into contact.

"You already have." Sherlock's voice came out ragged again, he was aware that he was grinning.

Lestrade pulled back to look at him, his voice scarcely better. "No, Sherlock, I really haven't."

Sherlock's legs seemed to have fallen open, drawing Lestrade in. Now, uncertain, he tried to bring them closed and succeeded in thumping Lestrade's flanks with his knees.

Lestrade coughed and moved back at once, holding up his hands. "Sorry. No round two in the plan and, for the record, that wasn't a suggestion."

"But you have done that with people?"

Lestrade kept his gaze. "On numerous occasions. But I'm reliably informed that no one individual is any different to another."

It sounded different, somehow, when Lestrade said it.

Sherlock kneeled up and bit him. It was a basely satisfying remedy to a feeling he had often had before in Lestrade's presence and if it made Lestrade groan and grip him once more all the better.

"You are absolutely impossible." It almost sounded like a compliment, when Lestrade said it like that. "Are we doing this or not?"

"Really now, detective, surely even your powers of observation can draw that conclusion?"

Lestrade pushed him over, pinning his wrists, eyes wide and nostrils flaring above him and Sherlock felt his cock kick in response. "Am I going to fuck you, Sherlock?"

"Do you want to?"

As Sherlock had expected, the grip tightened, Lestrade leaning in closer. "Really now, detective..."

Sherlock watched him, unable to keep from grinning with delight, this was fun. "I should be interested to try having you in my mouth."

Lestrade's eyes closed and he bit his lip. "OK. We have a plan." Letting go of Sherlock's wrists, his hands moved to Sherlock's hair, and apparently popular opinion had it that this act was debasing, but from that moment Sherlock began to feel like a god.

\- - -

"Yes, Sherlock's here."

Sherlock had come awake to the telephone ringing and now the sound of Lestrade's voice. "Ah. Yes. So he did tell you? Well yes. Yeah. Yeah, I know. No, not at all, I understand, seriously John, don't worry about it. Oh dear, really? I'll tell him. Look, John... No, never mind, I can't remember. Speak to you soon. No, really, it's fine, OK? See you around. Bye."

Sherlock stayed still and silent, listening carefully.

He heard Lestrade sighing and had a sudden vision of him at that moment, bracing his hands on the back of a kitchen chair, looking hunched and exhausted once more. Nothing formed the basis for the thought, it simply arrived.

The post-orgasmic lassitude had been far more pronounced than after his solitary efforts and supplied validation for the idea he had had that he had not previously experienced such intense sensations. He did not remember the point of dropping into sleep, unlike directly after the first time they had not separated, and had been lying alongside each on the sofa, naked under the rug. Lestrade had been behind him, having previously brought him to orgasm manually from that position, not quite holding him but with his hands idly tracing up and down his skin, presumably riding the same tide of endorphins and satiation. Sherlock had found it pleasurable but despite, or possibly because of that, unsettling. Nonetheless, eventually sleep had overtaken him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was back in his robe, hair wet from a shower. "That was John calling; he's found a bicycle, apparently, which I dare say means something to you."

"But that's excellent," Sherlock stood up, only to realise he was naked again and suddenly concerned this would trigger another delaying episode.

But Lestrade looked away. "It's past two in the morning. I think he was worried – you should text him when you stay out so late. Anyway, I have to get back to that house in South Ken first thing tomorrow – well, today – and so I'm afraid I'm kicking you out. I'll phone that taxi."

Cogitating about the bicycle, Sherlock dressed and followed Lestrade out of the flat's door and down the stairwell, to the street, and didn't notice Lestrade had said goodbye and walked back inside until he turned, mid flow, to ask of the empty air, "Are you still upset with me?"

\- - -

At the kitchen table of 221B the following evening, Sherlock outlined once again on a map his theories of the Haggarty case, re-iterating what he'd learnt from the bicycle and drawing more connecting lines onto the suspect list, which had shortened slightly during the course of the day's investigations.

Their plates had been pushed aside to make room, a faint scent of butter and onions lingered the air. John had cooked a meal of butternut squash risotto, rich with parmesan and balsamic vinegar, and having found an uncharacteristic appetite to be upon him, Sherlock now reasoned that the feeling of contentment he was experiencing was all or partially enteric feedback, lipoproteins loaded with fatty acids waltzing through his bloodstream.

Next to him – they sat always around one corner of the kitchen table, since clearing all of it at any one time was out of the question – John poured himself another glass of white wine and sat back in his chair. "How is Greg anyway?"

Sherlock looked up at him, "Greg?"

"Gregory. Gregory you saw last night? Gregory Lestrade?"

"Why are you calling him 'Gregory'?"

"It's his name."

"Yes of course it is. How do you know that?"

John sat forward, frowning, "numerous reasons, but not least of which the five warrant cards in the tobacco tin on the mantelpiece. But fine, OK, how's Lestrade?"

"Are you trying to ask me about our sexual encounter?"

John blushed, which was always amusing. "No, of course not."

"Isn't it 'normal' for men to regale each other with stories of sexual experiences? We did have sex, two times actually – how is one supposed to count, is it per pair of orgasms? But then I suppose it would never technically happen in many cases, at least as far as..."

John held up a hand. "Fine, really, stop there, thank you. But how is he?"

Warm. Careful. Susceptible to being kissed.

"He's Lestrade. He's just the same."

"Why's he in London? He's not working is he? He's supposed to be on holiday in Catalonia just now."

"A man he was investigating for fraud reacted to the investigation by killing his whole family with a knife, and how do you know that?"

"Bloody hell, how awful for him."

"How do you know that?"

"We talk, Sherlock. You know, conversation? The thing people who aren't you do with our tiny minds that lets us know via the easy way what other people's lives are like." John's calm was failing him; he twisted a piece of paper in his hands.

"So why aren't you phoning him to ask your questions?"

John looked at his hands, at the table. "Because I don't entirely know what to say to him at the moment." Standing abruptly, he picked up the plates with a clatter and deposited them in the sink.

"And yet you phoned him yesterday, so by 'at the moment' you mean since you found out that he and I definitely slept together."

John turned on the taps and squirted in some washing-up liquid. He looked miserable.

"Are you jealous of him or of me? Or does it make you feel alone in a generic way?"

"Sherlock!" John's hands froze, plate half washed. "Please."

Standing, Sherlock went over to stand next to him. He felt a strange sense of anxiety. "I don't want anyone to be unhappy. I think people get upset about very stupid things but I don't want them to be."

"I know," John replied, softly. "I do know that, Sherlock."

"I could have sex with you too, if that would help." He ran a hand down John's back. John's eyes closed. Not prevented, he traced his ear, the side of his face. He meant the offer in a generous spirit, but he felt his body warming up again, a familiar thrill running through it. Would John be like Lestrade? Would he push and roll and bite or would he be slow and soft and careful? Would he blush all over?

He stepped a little closer, pressing against John's back, leaning in towards the skin of his neck, inhaling; he was beginning to be hard again. John's breathing was shallow, but he stood completely still.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? After all, there must have been a very logical reason that you went to Lestrade, not me."

"I thought you might say no. I knew I could make him say yes."

Quite suddenly, John broke free, dropping the plate with a splash, stepping back and dripping soap foam all over the tiles, breathing fast, shaking his head like he was trying to wake up.

"And was that all it was to you, with him? Another favour from good old tame Lestrade?"

"And supposing it was? How does that offend you?"

"I don't know! I don't..." John ran a hand over his face and stopped, feeling the water. His voice, despite everything, was still very controlled. "I don't know. I'm going to go to bed. We should just forget about all this, please, it's just... stupid culturally conditioned emotion or whatever you like to call it. It must be boring you to death."

Sherlock stood for a moment, frowning, then strode across the room to his violin. He picked it up, raised the bow, then dashed both down onto the chair and kicked it before sinking to sit on the floor, staring intently at nothing, thinking with such fury his head began to ache.

\- - -

The corridor outside the small room where the inquest on the South Kensington murders had been recently concluded was stuffy and smelt of cheap bleach. As the rest of the small crowd of people brushed past him, Sherlock spotted Lestrade coming through a door and moved to intercept him, raising a hand to touch his shoulder in a way he would not have done the week before.

When Lestrade looked up, Sherlock saw that his eyes were still red and tired and there was a dullness in them that barely lifted when he saw who it was assailing him.

Sherlock felt another sensation in his stomach, and this one was not pleasant at all.

How is Lestrade?

John had known that Lestrade had needed to talk about this case. Not because he had deduced it but because those were the rules and expectations by which, for better or worse and usually worse, most people seemed to live. Sherlock had imagined what might have happened had John been in his place and the results had been intriguing in any number of ways, but in large part because he felt that John could have prevented Lestrade looking like this, now. For two men so completely obtuse at harnessing their own powers of observation they read each well; he had seen them exchanging glances over his head, silently sympathising or agreeing, had seen them talking to victims' relations, the two of them weaving the apparently 'right' words between them and neatly perpetuating humanity's refusal to communicate simply in bald facts.

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

"I trust you." He always found it extremely difficult to make emotional statements, but had decided that this was also a practical one and so less embarrassing.

"Excuse me?" Lestrade moved towards the side of the corridor to let the last person past him, and they were alone.

"I trust you," Sherlock repeated patiently. "I was not... On reflection I see that you are the person in all my acquaintance in whose good opinion I feel safest, and that this has guided me in... It was not nothing to me, and perhaps you would not be able to see that."

Lestrade stared at him a moment, then smiled, shaking his head. "A bloke's certainly got to take his compliments where he can find them with you around." And then, seeing Sherlock's face, "Thank you, though. That is very... human of you."

"I didn't come here to be insulted." He watched Lestrade grin and felt the tenseness in his stomach lifting.

"Well then, what would you prefer to do?"

"I need your help."

"Pardon me, but I'm experiencing an intense sensation of déjà vu."

"Not for me. Come back to the flat."

"John won't mind?"

"Why should he?"

Lestrade coughed. "I don't know, I just supposed that maybe..."

"You both do that."

"Excuse me?"

"You both do that, you and John. When you've realised something but you don't want or dare or choose to believe it, you say that you don't know. What you'd be like without me around I absolutely dread to think."

Turning, Lestrade pressed him against a wall and kissed him.

"What?"

"You tell me a better way to make you shut up and I'll do that instead."

"Duct tape?"

"Don't tempt me."

\- - -

In response to Sherlock's alerting text, John had laid a few tea things on the kitchen table – a third place had been cleared, the pile of volumes of International Forensic Science Journal shifted to the top of the fridge.

Sherlock watched carefully when the other two men first saw each other, and was rewarded with the sight of two men trying very hard to hide whatever reaction they might be having. Sherlock could see uncertainty from both of them, but John's expression, when it resolved, was concern. He looked as disturbed by Lestrade's appearance as Sherlock had been.

"You must be tired," John said, and when Lestrade gave a self-deprecating laugh and protestation, "No, you are tired. I can see you're tired. I'm used to making him eat and sleep, but you?"

Lestrade shrugged, sitting down when Sherlock did. Sherlock kept watching them, flicking his eyes from one to the other as if the non-verbal interchange were a game of tennis.

John poured three cups of tea and Lestrade took his in his hands, cradling it.

"There was no way you could have known that man would do that," John said, softly.

Lestrade's face, when he looked up, was so full of despair that Sherlock, even having known it would come, that John would find a way to lance the poison, experienced an impulse to reach out and touch him, an impulse entirely contrary to the goal of his plan.

"I could have prevented it." Lestrade's hands were gripping the mug so tightly his knuckles had whitened, and the china had to be searing hot against the skin of his hands. "If I'd kept him in a cell overnight, it would never have happened."

"On what evidence? You had no history, no risk factors, nothing. You couldn't have known." John's voice did reassuring very well – years of training, Sherlock suspected, and yet not less sincere for that - and Sherlock watched with approval as Lestrade relaxed minutely, then spoke again.

"Sherlock would have known."

And suddenly they were both looking at him.

Taking a sip of his tea, Sherlock wondered what the 'right' thing to say might be. As usual, he settled for the truth; it was all he could really offer anyone. "Well, yes, probably."

Under the table, John kicked him.

"I'm cleverer than you!" Sherlock sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "It's just the case. You are both... kind people, and you don't hurt each other and... I am most glad of both your friendships. And," he stood up, to better point at them with the conviction of the genius, "You are going to stop being utterly blind and realise that you fancy each other even if it means I have to use precious brain capacity to think about all this nonsense."

There was a moment of complete silence. Lestrade looked at John and then John looked back, and then, suddenly and to Sherlock's mystification, both of them burst out laughing so violently that they were leaning on each other, gasping for breath.

He folded his arms, standing up straighter. "What?"

"Sorry, Sherlock, it's just so very..." John gave up, clutching Lestrade's arm, tears streaming down his face. Lestrade himself was rejuvenated, the light back in his eyes, and he finished the sentence. "It's so very, very you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and sniffed, but continued to watch them as the laughter subsided and John pulled his hand away, attitude more nervous yet not moving back or drawing away from Lestrade's personal space.

Lestrade studied his face, then flashed a look sideways at Sherlock and, apparently satisfied, leant in and kissed John, carefully at first and then with more energy, deep and involved, and had Sherlock needed further evidence for his theory it was all in front of him. John's hands rose again, resting on Lestrade's upper arms; they swayed together.

Together, they would be elegant, Sherlock could easily imagine it – could suddenly not stop himself seeing it. They would have rhythm and patience, taking time and segueing from idle to specific activities at the other's cues, paired as dancers.

Sherlock swallowed, and turned away, then took a step towards the door. There. Case solved.

He could go to the Lab now, check on some experiments. He could check the police reports. Occupy himself somehow until...

"No." It was John. Sherlock heard the noise behind him as he stood up and walked towards him, registered his nearness and the fact that he smelt of his own aftershave and Lestrade's. "No, Sherlock."

He turned. "I have provided ample evidence of the desirability of..."

John interrupted. "No, you don't just wind it up and then walk away. It isn't that simple. I don't even think you want it to be."

"Kiss him," Lestrade suggested from the table, and Sherlock had not quite figured out which one of them he was prompting when John's lips met his and it was different, yes, but interesting, warm and slower, softer, insinuatingly smooth and sliding where Lestrade was insistent and sharp.

And then there were more hands on him, another pair of lips at his throat with nothing soft about them.

Sherlock thought back to a shot ringing out, the cold forecourt afterwards, the moment he and Lestrade had looked at each other and, for the first time, having the answers and bringing justice – their combined goal, the thing had brought them together – had taken second place for both of them, something, someone else, becoming the first consideration.

It had been illogical, unreasonable, illegal and emotional. He had never regretted it for a second.

Pulling back, hearing his own breathing heavy and ragged, he looked at them.

"I don't know what to say," he murmured. He could give them honesty, he could at least give them that.

He couldn't understand why they started laughing again, but then the kissing restarted, lips breaking into smiles and giggles into gasps, and he decided he could always investigate that later.


End file.
